The Wrath of the Queen of Pikes
by Belphegor
Summary: Written for the Black Pearl forum "Piece of Eight" challenge. Why does the Pirate Lord of the Mediterranean Sea carry a simple queen of spades playing card? Well, because there's a story behind it, written in seawater, paints, and blood.


**Author's notes**: This is in answer to the _Pieces of Eight_ challenge on the Black Pearl Forum, which consists in exploring other aspects of every Piece of Eight. I chose Chevalle's Queen of spades playing card; there are eight other stories in this challenge. The whole collection can be found here: **www **_dot_** fanfiction **_dot_** net/topic/67105/19502591/3/#80473192**. Be sure to give them a look!

There are a few non-English words in this story; their meanings are explained at the bottom of the page. I hope you like my tale anyway. (Also, there seems to be a problem with the "cover" image - the picture of the card won't stay up and keeps being replaced with my profile pic. Anybody else having this problem?)

Thanks a lot to FreedomOftheSeas for the help, to ChaosandMayhem for the beta, and to Stutley Constable for organising the whole challenge :o]

_Disclaimer: Capitaine Chevalle and the Brethren Court (and their deeds) belong to Disney. Everything else is mine. Even the Songbird._

* * *

**The Wrath of the Queen of Pikes**

Now listen up, pitchoun, because I might croak any moment now and what I'm about to tell you is too important to take to the depths with me when I go. No, I bloody am _not_ being dramatic. Shut up.

See this? Do you know what this is? Ah, you're not saying anything. Good. I knew you were a smart lad. You know there's more to this card than meets the eye, don't you? You've heard the rumours. Well, that's the thing about rumours, you see; everybody's got it wrong, but the rumours are all true. Yes, even the one about the drummer and the goat. That's what rumours are _for_, pitchoun.

So, tell me now, what do _you_ know about this card?

It's painted.

It's very, very old.

It's the Dame de pique, the Queen of Spades.

Good, my lad. You've got a good eye. I'm not laughing at you, it takes a good eye to see past the rumours and hearsay to see what is really there.

No, it's not magic. The charm went away; now it's no more magical than you are, or your sword, or the belt that's holding up my trousers.

It's not magic, but it used to be. I'll tell you about that.

It was used _for_ magic, though, an ancient, powerful magic some time ago, maybe a century, maybe two. The First Brethren Court. They treated the sea like they treated their women, like a dark, wild thing to be tamed. Fòl they were, every last one of them. We have thrived and we prospered since then, pirates, merchants and sailors alike, but there will come a day when Calypso will break free. You see, boy, it's all about the great wide ocean now, the tobacco and the spices of the Caribbean, but never forget that our Méditerranée is a force to be reckoned with too.

Maybe you'll understand more clearly in a minute.

You see, this card has a history besides its magic, written in blue, red and black – a history of love, blood and revenge.

And a woman. It's always a woman.

You're from around Marseilles, aren't you? You hide your accent well, but you can't fool an old Provençal. Your native city sings in your words. Well, maybe you know the old Château de Picque on the little Isle of Grand Rouveau, off Sant Nazari? It's mostly gone now, but the tower still looms over the harbour. I know, no sailor worth his salt goes there, it's a treacherous area, full of reefs.

A long, long time ago, around the time our good King François came to the throne, there was a queen in that castle.

It was a small castle for a small island, but the Queen was great and powerful. They called her Catherine la Noire, and she watched over the harbour and everything she could see from her tower. She was something of a witch, you see, and they said that within her chest her living heart was in tune with Calypso's.

When she was happy, fair winds blew from a clear blue sky. When she was angry, mistral and tramontane brought great black storm clouds from the heart of the Mediterranean Sea. When she was sad, a grey curtain of rain fell across the waves, trapping ships and men, more dangerous even than the winds.

Ahead of the sun, of the storm, of the rain, flew the Songbird.

It was just a little passeroun, one of those little birds you can hear singing in the salty pines near the cliffs. But instead of green and brown, that little bird was blue, the way the sea and the sky are blue under the sun. She sent it as a herald to the sailors, sometimes of hope, sometimes of caution. It was her eyes and her voice.

There was a captain of a big merchant ship who came by the Château de Picque every month to pay his respects and lay down a bunch of exotic flowers at the Queen's feet; and every time he came, a little painter who lived near the castle sighed and mourned the fact that he was so shy, and she so unattainable.

Because he could not hope to ask her to marry him, he loved her from afar. Only, he talked to the Songbird, who liked him, because he talked more with the colours on his brushes than with words.

One day the Captain asked the Queen to marry him. She had grown lonely for want of companionship; he had good manners and a silver tongue. They set a date, and the Captain sailed away on his ship, to return in a few months for the wedding.

Those were long months at sea, pitchoun, but it was no excuse for what the gusas did. He returned on the eve of the wedding, and, on the assumption that they were going to be married the next day anyway, forced himself on her.

Only the weak and the daft take their pleasure from unwilling women, boy, and it turned out this Captain was both; for when he had his fill he turned his back in contempt on Catherine la Noire and made to leave. She rose from the floor like a dark god from the ancient times, slit his throat and threw him out the window of her tower into the sea. Her thirst for blood was far from quenched, however, and so she unleashed the full might of her wrath on the harbour below. Thunder roared, lightning split the sky, and winds crashed into one another, making waves so high as man has never since seen in the Mediterranean sea. They crashed on decks, smashed the masts, and crushed the ships. Many a sailor was sent to a watery grave that night, for in her blind rage, there was not a man on the sea the Queen didn't want dead.

Nobody had seen the Songbird before the storms broke out; there had been no warning this time. But there it flew, into the heart of the gale, and went to find the little painter, who huddled in his home, safe not even on his soil. When the Songbird reached the small house, its entire body was red from the blood of dead mariners, and only its wings remained blue.

The Songbird sang, but couldn't speak, but it didn't need words with the Painter, who ran after him to the castle. In the end, he was the only human brave enough to face the squall, the high tower and the fury of the Queen.

And the little painter, who all his life had talked with pictures, not words, found his voice to bring peace, and little by little the storm subsided. And then he stopped talking, and listened to her, until the clouds broke and a pale sun rose over a peaceful sea.

The next day, southern winds had driven the rain clouds far away, and as the Painter returned to the castle, he found the tower empty and the Queen gone. Even the Songbird had flown away.

Where she went, you ask? No-one knows, pitchoun. She gave up her power and no-one ever knew her again under that name. Perhaps she went far inland, to seek fortune or forgiveness under different skies. Perhaps she feared retribution from the families of the sailors she had drowned in her rage. Perhaps she threw herself off the tower of her castle in grief, into the open arms of the sea. Personally, I like to think she went across the sea, but what does an old pirate like me know, eh?

The Painter was disconsolate. It means – oh, yes, you're a wordy lad, you know what this means. Have you ever been disconsolate? Hurts, doesn't it? You would do anything then to have back what was taken away. You can guess what the Painter did next, then, can't you? Yes, he brought her back, with his colours and his brushes. He painted her likeness on canvas, on parchment, on hemp paper, everywhere.

His favourite portrait of her, though, he made it small so he could carry it near his heart at all times. Look at it closely: red for her hair and her dress, and the little Songbird's body, from the Captain's and the dead sailors' blood. Blue the Songbird's wings, like the sky and the sea fold into one another on fair weather. And black, for her name and her deeds, for the Captain might have deserved his death at her hand but the men on the ships were innocent.

When he decided to disguise the portrait as a card he could not make her the Queen of Hearts … Her heart had never really been his, and there was too much blood on it.

He took a cue from her castle and made her his Dame de Pique, his Lady of Pikes. Fey as she had been that night, he still loved her until the day she died. We humans are foolish that way.

He had poured everything into this small portrait – all his love, all his heartbreak, everything that might have been but was not to be – and maybe this is how it drew the power the Queen used to have over the sea. You see, when so much of someone is put into one small thing, it becomes more than just an object. Perhaps some of the Queen's soul that she lost that night killing the sailors made its way into this portrait. Perhaps the Painter bound his own soul to it. Who knows?

What is known is that whoever carried this card, if they showed the proper respect and loved the sea like the Painter had loved the Queen, fair winds blew for them, blue skies followed them, and squalls passed them by. It was not luck, really; rather, the Mediterranean Sea's good graces went with them.

I even heard that a few men saw a red and blue little passeroun who guided the card's owner's ship out of dark storms …

But desperate men may see anything, and there's already so many tales …

* * *

Capitani Tistoun de Flambo took a deep, rattling breath, and squinted at his former first mate. "Can you guess what happened after he painted the card, pitchoun?"

The "pitchoun" – a tall, lean man of about thirty-five who only answered to the rather odd name of Chevalle – smiled wryly. His small smile, like his entire person, was all angles, with the ghost of something smug.

"Somehow the card ended up in the hands of Jan de Roquevaire, the first Pirate Lord of the Mediterranean sea, correct?"

"That's right. A young man, born near the Spanish border, had befriended the Painter and kept the card as a keepsake after he died. That was Roquevaire. I expect you know the rest."

"How he was killed in battle by Caffarelli – il Timoniere – who then became Pirate Lord, and used the card years later at the First Brethren Court."

"Good. You know your history." In spite of his age and his illness, Flambo's voice was still fairly strong, although he was not above using his rasping breath to unnerve people. It didn't seem to work on Chevalle as well as it did some others, however. Maybe the other man knew him a little too well. "Now, the Timoniere was a good pirate – evaded capture a long time, drove the French, the English and the Spanish crazy, shed his blood as much as his crew – but he was notoriously broke."

Chevalle cocked an eyebrow. "An enduring tradition among the Pirate Lords of the Mediterranean sea, it would seem."

"Have you forgotten the ships we plundered, pitchoun?" In better days, Flambo would have roared. As it was, his voice came from somewhere deep within his chest with a sinister rumble. "The loot I made rivalled La Buse's, if the old devil's treasure should ever be found!"

"You frittered all of that away, though."

"Boy, when you're a pirate you don't make a living, you make a life. I hope I taught you at least that." Flambo coughed discreetly, then continued. "Anyway, when the time came to gather the First Brethren Court, when the Pirate Lords turned out their pockets looking for pieces of eight – or at least trinkets of significant worth – this was all he found.

"Oh, the Timoniere was reluctant to use the card. After all, who knew what using it for such powerful magic might do to what was already there. Maybe it would turn against its owner and bring gales and soldiers upon his head. Maybe it would become more powerful. Or maybe it would do nothing at all. Pressed as he was for time, in the end, he threw it in with the others' objects."

"And they bound Calypso in her bones."

"So they did." Flambo's eyes, black and beady, locked on to Chevalle's pale blue irises. "From the very second Calypso was bound in flesh, the magic of the card died. How could it have worked still? The Brethren Court had treated her as the Captain had treated the Queen – her trust violated, her strength weakened. The sea only sings for those who listen. The card could only bring fair winds to those who loved and respected her. That is why the Mediterranean sea is now as ruthless and merciless as Calypso herself had been in her darkest hours."

There was a heavy silence when Flambo stopped for good, breathing laboriously.

Then Chevalle leaned forward. The plume of his hat tipped down, and he swatted it away absent-mindedly.

"I have the nagging feeling that you're telling me this story for a reason."

Flambo gave a cavernous cough, but kept his eyes – still startlingly sharp and bright – on the younger man. "How's your _Fancy_ doing?"

"Well enough." Clearly Chevalle had been taken aback, but had recovered so quickly that the aloof mask barely flickered. "We encountered a nasty squall off Tripoli, but she held fast."

"Why –" Flambo fought back another fit. That cough was going to be the death of him, terrible pun intended. Even now he found dark humour in the fact that he had survived grapeshot, bullets, a near-hanging and a highly colourful disagreement with a crocodile only to die in his bed like some rich old ship owner. "– Why do you still keep that English name? Changing the name of a captured ship's traditional."

"Oh, I know. I just didn't feel like it at the time, and it's a little late now."

Flambo peered at him. "Remind me again, whom did you steal that ship from?"

Chevalle's slight smile was suddenly so arrogant that it was easy to believe the rumours that the man was a former aristocrat. "Lord Talmage. Lord Algernon Talmage, Duke of Perham. I believe his wife named the ship in the first place; far be it from me then to go against a lady's wish."

"How do you know _she_ picked the name?"

"She told me, of course."

There was a second's silence, during which Flambo was surprised to see a gentle sort of fondness lurk behind the man's smirk, and decided to change subjects. Chevalle might have had expensive tastes in affairs of the heart, so to speak, but he had been one of his most trusted first mates, and respect – or at least keeping their noses out of one another's personal business – had been paramount in that successful partnership.

Flambo nodded, coughed into his handkerchief, and eyed Chevalle again. "I did have my reasons for telling you the story."

The smirk faded, sharp blue eyes all business again.

"Someday – not in my lifetime, maybe not in yours – Calypso will be set free again. Man can't keep the seas for himself. One day, they'll need the ocean to rise, and that day, they'll need to gather the Brethren … and the Pieces of Eight.

"And they will burn them, and Calypso will be free."

Chevalle made to speak, his shoulders tensing, but seemed to think better of it. He settled for a frown.

"Even if the magic doesn't work anymore, it does seem a shame to burn something with that much history behind it, doesn't it?" he asked with a glance to the card. Flambo shrugged.

"The Queen and the Painter have been dead for centuries. She won't mind, and neither will he." He took the card and squinted at it, twiddling it gently between his fingers. "Remember that an object is only as powerful as you make it. It used to hold the good graces of the Méditerranée, it's a portrait of a woman who was loved, it's a symbol of men's power over the sea, it carries the blood of every pirate who died and passed the title to another …" The card disappeared in a flick of his wrist. Another swift motion and it reappeared between his fingertips. "Or maybe it's just an old card. What do you think?"

Chevalle slowly took the card, probably aware of what would come next, and studied it for a few seconds.

"I think," he said slowly, "it _is_ just an old card. But everything else is true, as well."

Flambo's spectral grin failed to light up his deathly pale face, with dark shadows under sunken eyes.

"Congratulations, pitchoun. You are now the Pirate Lord of the Mediterranean Sea."

Chevalle returned his smile without flinching, and slipped the card up his sleeve.

"Merci, Capitaine."

Miles away over the waves, between Bandol and Sant Nazari, a red and blue songbird flew.

THE END

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Notes/Translations:

_**Provençal**_

_pitchoun_: (little) boy, lad  
_fòl_: madman, fool  
_mistral_ and _tramontane_ are both strong, dry cold winds; the _mistral_ comes from the northwest and the _tramontane_ from the north (the Alps).  
_passeroun_: passerine, sparrow  
_gusas_: knave, villain  
_flambo_: flame.

_**French**_

_noire_: black (feminine)  
_merci_: thank you

The Château de Picque doesn't exist, but there is an Île du Grand Rouveau off the little city of Sanary-sur-Mer, which used to be known in Occitan as Sant Nazari. The story Flambo tells is a complete invention of mine.

There are exactly four French words in this: _Méditerranée_, _noire_, _merci_ and _Capitaine_. The rest is Provençal, one of the Occitan dialects of the South-East of France. The number of people who speak it now has dwindled over the years, but at the time the majority of people would speak their own dialect before French (sometimes they never spoke French at all). Provençal and French might come from the same (roughly) Latin branch, but somebody who only speaks French won't understand Provençal. French borrowed words from this dialect, like _mistral_ and _tramontane_, but they don't sound the same at all.

Hope you liked! :o]


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